Oh, where do we disappear?
Into the silence that surrounds us
And then drowns us in the end
Where they try to get you out to get you in
And all these people who impersonate our friends
Say, “Come again, come again, come again, come
again, come again…”
And all the oil rolling in our tumble-down-driven veins pools lactic little comatose currents, thriving sleigh-ridden dreams of eclectic foundry-fraught thoughts screaming echo-archaic into loose folding rhythms winding staircases down the aurora. These long risers roaring arctic light. Its an awfully big step to make for wounded pride blinding, an unreasonable reason for your latex-bound art menagerie. All the same, I'm still better than you. All the same.
Those ten years you spent building the himalayas to the heavens, the hours of babel roaring down the sides, and 15 generations passed on the 15 generations onwards, leaving no stone safely rocked in its belly. Just the same. An unearthly brood of brown ground massing, moaning, and the sea goes on swallowing the lowing song leaving sky with one white eye to mumble in fluorene stationery, smattered in its hydrogen ink, the lean long syllable of suns sinking, "I'm high."
But I suppose you're saner in the smell of novelty, or couldn't grasp the mottled cuff link of your hand set in a million years of calcified dispensations you clung to in the primordial infancy. All your what-ifs. It's hell on wheels. Hell on hearts, too.
But, oh, the magnanimity, the sweet depraved conjecture, the crumpled stockings of a painted louse stuck leeching on the woolly wee stump you call your life. or Manhood.
Because its unchanged, my changeling.
I was born for war. Born for bearing on and down the long drawn knives that never had my back, born for blood and baying out against the light all the doom-worshipped sodden sons feed into. None of it's the same this time. Where monkeys have no tails and ring canticle bells, since a thousand thousand stars rose in my chest shredding the breath in stammers and stops and sharp, coiled, cart-away rasps I don't know if it's just me. All the same I can't bother to see just what makes that ounce of flesh so transubstantiated, from goose down pillow threads to the lingering immortal ribbons tying tresses to rusted-out haloes. Some winking, some wondering, some hung tiltly in the twilit neon on loan to the loaners lending pawn.
Grow old then, soaked and sot in the tannin mess slinking out from doors blacked-out and murderous annoyance blaring chlactic-crank in chittering windows blingering in the summer heat. All shadows.
They know the noise of leafless wings minus the hum of carotid tinkering sitting in multiples at the bar mourning. Ringless rings forgetting the vein blowing vanity through their aching teeth, quiet chided children of conceit thinking lawless thoughts and pantomiming the moral play kissing rills in reflections of their grease lined tankards.
Sobbing at their quartered bones, mawing at their missing fingers that finely played as shadow puppets on the miniature stages in the soft places of our dreams.